She shrugged, bobbing her head from side to side, and winked. “Suit yourself.”
Again he looked thoroughly shocked by her words. He turned to leave, seemed to think better of it, and mumbled irritably under his breath.
“I’m sorry, did you say something, Brian?”
“I said take care not to trifle with me, lass. Ye may regret the consequences.”
“I doubt it.” She flashed him a flirtatious, demure smile—at the very least she hoped it looked flirtatious and demure—and flounced to the tub, wiggling the robe off of her shoulders.
The door slammed and the sound of Brian grumbling furiously—something about his flaming trousers—made it impossible to hold in a giggle. Tormenting the man was entirely too much fun. If only it didn’t hurt so much to think of last night’s cool rejection.
Slowly she doffed the clothing and slid beneath the surface of the water. She took a moment to simply relax before scrubbing the sweat of illness from her body. She closed her eyes, letting her mind whirl around the events of the morning. It was all something of a puzzle. The obviously homeless young boy appearing in her doorway—her heart could break for his rapscallion appearance—was not a thing she could have anticipated, and the confirmation she had seen Roark was more than a little frightening. Brian could easily have been injured or… killed. She clenched her teeth. Who was she kidding? With Roark here, both their lives were in more imminent danger than she’d anticipated. At the very least she had prevented one disaster by steering clear of the tavern. She tapped her fingers on the side of the tub. Roark and Brian obviously had a significant, less than kindly history. What she wouldn’t give to know the story behind that relationship.
A vision of Brian floated across her mind’s eye. He looked adorably grumpy, the singular furrow between his brows gathered the way it always did when he concentrated or felt irritable. She smiled a moment before the thought of losing him or the very least never being with him invaded her senses. It was suffocating, crushing to think of never seeing him wink or smile again.
She plunged her head beneath the water, holding her breath in as long as her lungs would allow. Life was so unfair. Brian surrounded her, filled her up, made her feel whole, even now she could hear him calling her name. Lydia. Lydia. From his lips it was more than a name, it was… Wait, why was her fantasy Brian shouting?
“Lydia! Someone is coming. We must leave here, now!”
Her head broke above the water’s surface at the same moment her fantasy man exploded through the washroom door. God, but no fantasy could do him justice. Half way to her feet she froze in a mixture of shock and horror. Brian stood statuesque, eyes riveted on her, a new sense of urgency emanating from his rigid form.
“By Christ, girl, have a care and cover yerself,” he spat.
Prompted by his angry tone she moved to shield herself the best she could with her hands and stepped from the tub, cheeks on fire. A towel was tossed across the back of a chair a few feet away, hastily she reached for it, but the rivulets of slippery water cascading from her hair and body made the footing precarious. “Oh!” she cried, as her right foot slid across the hardwood planks, both arms flailed uselessly at her sides, and she was sure to crash into the chair holding her towel and clothes.
In an instant Brian was across the room, arms outstretched to catch her. However, he too misjudged the amount of water and the slickness of the floor and crashed into Lydia’s teetering form. His arms snaked around her—though she couldn’t be sure if the gesture was protective or purely instinctive—as they tumbled in a tangle of limbs backward into the tub of warm water.
“De-chr-sw-ff!” Brian spluttered a stream of colorfully vehement, though unintelligible, curses as his mouth bobbed in and out of the waterline.
Gasping for air, Lydia made a desperate attempt to extricate herself from confines of the tin tub. With one knee trapped between Brian’s hips and the metal siding and the other leg slung half over the edge, maneuvering out of the compromising position was near impossible.
“Owe!” Brian howled as, in her haste to scramble away, her left knee landed squarely between his legs.
Lydia stilled instantly. “Oh, Brian, I am so sorry.” She didn’t know much about male anatomy, but she was aware of the delicate nature of the area where her knee currently resided.
“Be sorry later. Right now just move yer damned knee.”
Instantly she set to action. “Of course, what was I thinking?” Once again the awkward position proved too much and her foot slipped sending her splashing on top of Brian all over again.
“You will be the death of me,” he groaned, lifting her bodily off of him and dumping her over the edge of the tub. Close behind he rolled over the side, slipped, and landed on top of her, his face snugly nestled in the crevice between her breasts. “The death of me indeed.” He scrambled away from her, nearly losing his footing once again, grabbed the towel from its place on the chair, and flipped it across her naked body.
“You know,” a small voice piped from the doorway, “men have been forced into marriage for less than that.”
“Brandon, if you do not shut up this minute I swear upon the stars I’ll kill ye in yer sleep,” Brian barked.
The boy shrugged. “Just sayin’ is all.”
“Aye, I am very well aware of what ye’re sayin’,” he hissed. “It’ll behoove ye to know there are some things better left unsaid.” He shook his head as though to clear it. “Now, we don’t have time for this. Lydia, get dressed. Brandon, with me.”
“Brian, who is coming?”
Flashing eyes turned to her. “Jonathan Roark. Now, move.”
“Roark! But how do you know?”
“This is not the time fer your twenty and one questions, Lydia. I’ll explain everythin’ once we’re on the move.” He strode dripping toward the door.
“And, Brian?”
“Christ, Lydia, what now?” he snarled.
“We must bring Brandon with us.”
He nodded curtly and swung the door closed.
“I’ll go wit’ ‘er, but I’m not sure I’d go anywherst wit’ the likes a ‘ou, Brian.”
“Figured as much.”
Despite her welling panic, Lydia couldn’t help but smile at them bantering back and forth. She rather suspected Brandon’s antics stemmed from deep seeded feelings of mistrust. She would work on that. If of course the three of them managed to escape Jonathan Roark. Lydia dressed quickly, though she was unable to lace the bothersome stays, braided the sopping, tangled mass of her hair the best she could, and emerged from the washroom. The sight of Brian soaked through with bathwater nearly sent her into a fit of laughter. Perhaps the illness had addled her brain.
“Ready?” It was not a question as Brian tossed the satchel over his shoulder and grabbed her arm.
“I feel terrible leaving your friend’s house in such a mess.”
“Would ye like to stick around and clean it for him then? I’m sure Keith’s henchman would very much appreciate the opportunity to shoot ye through the kitchen windows.”
Appropriately chagrined she let him usher her and Brandon through the backdoor. The day was lovely, bright and sunny, but in the open Lydia felt exposed. “How is it you know that Roark is on his way here?”
“I’m not positive this is where he’s coming, but I sure as hell wasn’t about to take any chances.”
“Brian, I am confused, where did you see him? Or when did you see him?”
He dragged her bodily toward the woods. “I walked up to the old mill when you got in the bath.” She strained to hear his hushed words. “Roark and his men were searching the buildings on that side of town. I didn’t want to take the chance of being caught in Henry’s house.”
“But when Roark’s men see what a state we left the house in they’ll know we were there, that we left in such a hurry.”
“Which is why I want to be long gone before that happens. Worry not, Lydia, I’ll do everythin’ in my power to keep ye safe
.” Almost as an afterthought he nodded to Brandon. “The boy as well.”
“I know, and I trust you, I’m just scared.” The canopy of the woods loomed dark and foreboding, adding to her fears and the sensation of being lost. What would she do without Brian Donnelly?
Brian turned back to her, a keen question skimming the surface of her eyes. “Why do ye not hate me, Lydia? After last night ye should.”
“I know,” she murmured, steadily meeting his gaze. “But I don’t.”
“You there, freeze!” A man’s voice and the ominous click of a pistol hammer sounded directly behind them. Instantly Lydia froze; Brian and Brandon did the same. “Now, turn slowly toward me.”
“Do as he says, and stay close,” Brian muttered, raising both hands and obeying the commands.
The image of the man holding the gun on them blended into the obscurity of the forest, Lydia could not seem to focus clearly on his figure, but his weapon… his weapon was a different story altogether. The shiny barrel was pronounced, trained on Brian’s chest, and she knew the surest sense of impending doom. This was it. The end of the road. For all of their running Keith’s henchman had finally tracked them down. Would it be terribly cowardly to close her eyes when the man shot her? Moreover why had she never found the strength to tell Brian she loved him?
Chapter Ten
A stream of curses streamed through Brian’s mind. Nothing was worse than standing with one’s arms in the air staring at the glinting barrel of a gun. A slew of escape scenarios flooded his brain, every one ending with a bullet in his back and most likely Lydia’s as well. Unless lightening struck their sandy haired assailant it would seem doom had arrived. Defiantly he glared directly into the eyes of the most recent foe. Was this one of Keith’s hired henchman, or a man tempted by reward money?
“Henry Wallace?” Brian sputtered in disbelief. “I say man, are you a sight and a half for sore eyes.”
The gun dropped. “Damn it, Donnelly, is that you? Scared the hell out of me.”
Brian stumbled forward, clasping his old friend’s arm. “I’ve a mind to kiss ye right now.”
“Just so long as you don’t do it, Donnelly.” Henry grinned, eyes warming with friendship and good humor. “I prefer my kisses from those a fair sight prettier than the likes of you.” An appreciative gaze slid the length of Lydia.
“Aye, I remember. Just where in the hell have ye been?”
“London.” Henry uncocked the pistol and slipped it into his belt. “Arrived home and saw the three of you sprinting out of my house and into the woods. Took you for bandits. You’re not robbing me are you, Donnelly? I saw you ran into a mite of trouble.” A knowing gaze shifted from Brian to Lydia. “Miss Covington, I presume.”
“Yes, sir.” Lydia stepped forward, pulling Brandon with her.
“I served under your father, miss. He’s a good man.” Henry’s gaze dipped curiously to Brandon before returning to Brian.
For the moment Brian chose not to explain Brandon’s presence. “I take it ye saw the posters?”
Henry nodded solemnly. “Just what the hell happened that you’ve run off with the next Prime Minister’s daughter? If it’s the Gretna Green you’d be wise to hightail it clear out of Britain.”
“It’s a long story, but we’ve not run off together. The girl and I witnessed a murder and were abducted by those who would make us disappear. We’re just tryin’ to get safely back to her father before the likes of Felix Keith or Jonathan Roark catch up to us, and finish the deed.” Brian threw a glance toward Lydia and Brandon. “I came here to seek yer help, Henry, I apologize for makin’ use of the house in yer absence, but it was unavoidable.”
Henry pulled at the graying tufts of his whiskers. “I see. Might I ask why you’re in an all fired hurry to leave now?”
“The men after Lydi— Miss Covington and I are searchin’ the village by the old mill. I couldn’t take the chance of being caught.”
“I understand.” Henry nodded. “How far do you have left to travel?”
“On foot? Likely two days.”
“Give me one hour, Brian, and I will have a horse and cart for you. The horse isn’t much to look at, she’s older than rocks, but dependable.”
“I appreciate it, Henry, but we’ve got to be movin’, now.”
His friend glanced back over his shoulder, lips pursed in a terse line. “Travel due west one mile. You’ll come to a small pond, meet me there in one hour. If I’m not there in two go on without the horse.”
“Thank you.” Brian clasped the other man’s hand. “Ye’ve no idea how much this means to me, to us.”
“Don’t be thanking me just yet, Donnelly. Now get out of here.”
“Ye heard the man.” Brian jerked his head to the west. “Let’s go.” Lydia and Brandon were quick to comply. Brian’s eyes locked on the boy’s hand nestled securely within’ Lydia’s, it warmed his heart to see her so blindly accept the lad. Most women of her station turned their noses to homeless bastard thieves, even in the form of seven-year-old boys.
It took only fifteen minutes to reach the pond. Brian spotted a relatively secluded spot behind some willows and ushered his charges to it. Lydia and Brandon stretched out on a flat boulder to wait, but Brian, unable to relax, paced the perimeter of the small pond, maintaining a constant vigil of the surrounding area. Lydia collected six sticks and seven small stones to teach Brandon a game. Brian couldn’t help but smile at them laughing softly, and bantering back and forth. If not for the imminent threat of danger the vision would have held the atmosphere of a picnic. A sense of nostalgia assailed him along with the vague inclination of a memory…
The gentle lap of the water, the soft tinkle of Lydia’s laughter tickled the back of his mind until he could almost see a time so long ago when he’d sat on a rock beside his mother, watching his older brother and father play.
A sharp whistle pierced the air, three tones, high, low, high.
Brian ducked down, and whistled in response, low, high, low. Slowly he crept forward through the willows. Henry came into view holding an ancient sorrel mare, hitched to an equally ancient wooden cart. Cautiously he stepped out, pistol at the ready should the other man have been followed.
Henry raised a hand in greeting. “I was afraid you’d have moved on by now.”
“The thought did cross me mind.” Brian grinned. “But I decided to err on the side of caution and give ye the full two hours.” He reached out to stroke the animal’s smooth neck, murmuring quietly to her. The mare whickered softly, turning liquid brown eyes to him, assessing. Brian smiled when she leaned trustingly into his hands. “We’ll get on fine, love, don’t ye worry about that.”
Henry slapped the horse’s side. “This old girl is Bess. I’ve had her for twenty years and I couldn’t have parted with her for anyone less than you.”
“Brian certainly has a way with horses. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Wallace?” Lydia approached, beaming with gratitude.
“The very best, Miss Covington, no man in Britain can do with a horse what Donnelly can. A magical touch he has.”
Lydia extended both hands, clasping Henry’s warmly. “Mr. Wallace, I cannot thank you enough for your kindness.”
“Anything for the daughter of Sir William Covington, Miss Lydia, I would have followed him to hell and back. Any of us would.”
“Aye,” Brian quickly agreed. The perfectly poised smile adorning Lydia’s face never wavered, but with the mention of her father a glimmer of emotion—something akin to pain, perhaps anger—flashed at the surface of her eyes. Any who did not know her would have missed it. The girl never ceased to puzzle him, Sir William had given her the world. “Once again, Henry, thank you. I’m sorry we can’t catch up on old times, but the three of us really must be goin’. Brandon, up ye go.” He helped the boy scramble into the flatbed of the rickety cart before turning to hand Lydia into the seat.
“If you don’t mind I should like to ride in the back with Brandon.”
“Sui
t yerself.” He shrugged, stuffing down the twinge of disappointment she hadn’t wanted to sit with him. Just as well. He wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her in. He let his fingers linger only a moment longer than necessary, but it was long enough. The world swished and swirled to a stop, lending a perfectly timeless quality to the air. Lydia fit so perfectly within his hands, as though his palms were crafted for the sole purpose of worshiping her. In that singular magical second Lydia turned to him, linking their eyes, and his heart—the whole of his soul—ceased to exist save for her. Right here, right now, in this enchanted moment he was ready to forsake every rigid belief of honor and holding himself from her, fall to his knees and beg her to be his. Would she believe the words sincere after last night?
Her eyes narrowed, and her head cocked quizzically to one side. “Brian, are you feeling all right? You look a bit pale. I hope you’re not coming down with what I had.”
If his heart had not stopped stone cold in his chest, it may as well have. He was crushed. Completely and thoroughly devastated. She didn’t feel the witching he’d so keenly experienced a split second before. The ache in his chest was as acute as that in his drawers after her earlier assault on his manly region.
Goddamn it! What an idiot he’d proved to be.
Every moment with Lydia drew him further into the quagmire of falling head over heels for her. He’d long stopped denying the fact she would forever own a piece of him. That a part of his soul was irrevocably touched by this woman, but he knew better than to believe he could ever have her. She was General Covington’s daughter and, despite what she said, engaged to a peer of the realm. Certain social situations were impossible to overcome. This was one of them.
“I’m just tired,” he clipped, and swung into the driver’s seat. It was true too, he was tired, damned exhausted, it proved a struggle just to keep his eyes open driving the creaking cart. A time or two he went cross-eyed steering the vehicle along the old road winding through the woods. Worse, if he let his mind wander for even a moment, visions of Lydia dripping wet and nude branded his conscious, or perhaps it wasn’t his conscious, but the limbo between waking and sleeping, either way the image of her drove him to distraction.
Forget Me Not Page 15